The problem brother
by csfcsf
Summary: John has just been freed from abduction by unknown people. While there he found another victim, a certain Sherrinford Holmes, his friend's secret oldest brother, who he tries to protect. Sherlock, however, seems to have heavy suspicions about the man. A darker approach on Sherrinford Holmes, slowly unravelling as Sherlock tries to piece together what happened and why.
1. Chapter 1

_**.**_

'You never told me you had another brother, Sherlock', John realized, as he absent-mindedly rolled a glass of amber-coloured liquid.

The fireplace was lit at 221B and the warm comfortable light emanating threw flecks of rainbow colours crossing the crystal glass on its way to John's hand. The same hand that had scratches and hurt numbly even now, at the end of the evening, when the things that had passed were all but neatly tucked away on the registry of the day's events. John shivered before he could help himself, accompanying his hand's faint tremor. So maybe not so neatly stored yet. The day had been too demanding, John's life had been at stake and he still couldn't wrap his head around what had happened. Hence the drink that Sherlock measured in a carefully disguised scientific appreciation. Sherlock couldn't miss that John's sister was an alcoholic, probably he felt the need to analyse the process in the other of the Watson's siblings. The process of deconstruction and slow decay, the detachment from real life into an alternative reality. No, Harry searched the evasion and plentiful solitude that only alcohol, she thought, could offer her. John had hoped, in a recess of his mind, for only an abandoned minute, to get drunk. Soon he had realized he didn't want to get drunk. He wanted to fast forward until the present time matched his mindset, but it'd never happen unless he was fully engaged and allowed himself to go through the steps. Now the whisky was disgustingly warming in his hand, and he just held the glass there to watch those crystal induced colours from the light refraction. It provided him with a sense of innocence, a belief in the simple meaningless of the universe, one that John was desperately trying to let trickle through him to his core but didn't quite make it there. Too much pain, violence, it was all over now, but part of his mind was still in reverse.

John looked up, realizing Sherlock hadn't responded about his brother. The consulting detective had his clear green eyes set on John, as if waiting for his mind to roll back to the starting point before answering: 'I also didn't quite tell you about Mycroft, he insinuated himself.'

'Yeah, with security cameras and kidnappings. You Holmes brothers know how to enjoy a grand entrance.'

Sherlock smiled sideways but deflected: 'Actually, I have no idea why you'd say that.' John smiled back but lost the easy opportunity and they fell back into silence.

'John', Sherlock started in a low persuasive tone of voice. Maybe he had grown tired of waiting. John's breathing heightened its pace at once.

'No.'

The detective lost some of his temper. 'Fine, we'll talk about my brother - instead of you having been kidnapped, held hostage and finally released by Mycroft's elite army team after I found out your location just', he glanced at his wrist watch, 'forty-five minutes ago. Or how you've refused an ambulance on site, insisted to be released from any medical care before any paramedic even came near you, and asked me to come here to Baker Street before "driving home later". Or how you're still wearing your jacket, that has someone else's blood stain on it. Or even how you've come to find out that Mycroft and I have a brother.'

John shot him a dark look, heavy on anger and hurt. He was done talking.

Finally Sherlock conceded to get up and reach for his violin. The warm smooth wooden surface under his fingertips helped Sherlock feel calmer, and hopefully the music could help ground both rescuer and rescued from the day's events.

_**-.-**_

_Disclamer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats._

* * *

_Introductory A/N: I have no justification. Let me start by saying that I have no good justification._

_"You know what happened to the other one." I'm accepting the leap that it refers to an older brother that ACD never mentioned, as is somewhat a popular belief._

_I was playing with the idea of creating a Sherrinford Holmes – the lost brother – before S4 clears the mystery (hopefully), but kept wondering if Sherlock is aware of him why would he have hidden him from John, why would Mycroft have him as a secret if he were alive. Family fallout seemed too petty. Prolonged illness that had isolated him seemed far-fetched since the eighteen hundreds. I just couldn't find a nice Sherrinford. Then it came to how was he perceived by someone other than a Holmes. Was he really dark? What would a Holmes (from Sherlock to Mycroft) consider dark?_

_So, there you go - if this is your cup of tea - 2 days in the lives of SH and JW, and 21 chapters (short, around 500 words length each) and an unofficial version of Sherrinford Holmes. (Actually 22 chapters, I mislabeled once and now I have one too many for my inside joke. Meh.) __-csf_


	2. Chapter 2

_**.**_

John had just fallen asleep in his armchair by the fireplace when Sherlock's phone vibrated for an incoming text message. The consulting detective finished the melody gently and finally lowered the bow and violin, watching his friend attentively for signs of awakening or discomfort. Finally he allowed himself to grab his phone from the living room table and read the text. Mycroft, of course, wanting an update, warning he'd come by. Sherlock angrily typed back a response prohibiting him to come to Baker Street that night. John needed to rest, he had had enough, he wouldn't be disturbed by useless questions now.

_I can bring Sherrinford with me, Sherlock. -MH_

Sherlock hesitated. Besides John, who wasn't doing much talking, Sherrinford was the only other one that held answers. Including to John's condition.

The army assault team had dawned on the old warehouse with special training and stealthy moves. Captain Watson would have been proud of their intervention. Tense minutes and some lone gunshots after, the first military men came back out, signalling their good progress to the man in charge. John had come out of the abandoned industrial facility on his own feet, but looking haggard and badgered. What the captors had been up to, he kept as a secret. John recognised Sherlock immediately with a half-smile, but glancing at the stationed ambulance in the background his demeanour changed. Avoidance, blank stares, empty silences. He was acting far from his usual self. John refused the medic team, and even to part with his jacket. So, right now, as he sat on the armchair, he could be bleeding internally in his sleep without anyone's knowledge. Unlikely, since he was a doctor and possessed a fair amount of good sense. But something – _something_ _important _– was off, Sherlock worried. John was never one to hold back like that. The fact that he only talked to Sherlock and was functionally mute to everyone else, and even then only when conveniently pressed and still avoiding the inevitable questions, wasn't right either. That wasn't John's MO.

Unpleasant scenarios filled Sherlock's mind with dread. The fact that John was there was suddenly just a secondary source of comfort. John had seek his company, had chosen a sit by the warmth of the fireplace, in his customary chair, as if in a mock theatre piece of normality. It still felt like a mockery of the 221B Sherlock and John once had.

Sherrinford, the problem brother.

Sherlock breathed deeply, feeling slightly nauseous. Whatever had happened that day, it'd haunt them all for a while to come. And Sherrinford there was just icing on the cake... Sherlock viciously threw his phone against the far wall, shattering it into too many small pieces to ever be able to reassemble. Immediately he realized his mistake, turning to John and confirming he had woken him with a startle.

'John', he started, with a twist in his stomach. This time John followed with his gaze the shattered phone, and frowned. When he looked back to the detective, his old self-assured postured was partly back, as he took hold of the situation and calmly explained:

'Sherlock, we need to talk it through. I realize there are some things you need to know.'


	3. Chapter 3

_**.**_

In his armchair, John was carefully removing his jacket off his shoulders. 'I'm not really hurt, Sherlock, just some bruises.'

'Then why did you push away the paramedics?'

John didn't answer. His cobalt blue eyes were pensive, as if he was pondering the best way of recounting the events. Or which to omit, Sherlock noticed.

'You were kidnapped, John.'

'Not exactly a _kid_, but yes kidnapped', the doctor tried to smile. 'I guess with my track record I should have been able to foreseen it by now, but I wasn't. I mean, hardly the first time someone grabs me and... Every time you've come to my rescue too, so I should stop worrying, but I never do because... I thought... And then it...'

'John.' With that one word, his friend's name, Sherlock managed to ground him somewhat.

'Yes, _right_. So, there I was, walking down the street, I hear a woman's cry for help. I take my phone and call 999 as I ran in to make sure she gets some help before the police can get there. I'm reporting it when I realize the alley is empty. I mean, there was someone there, but now I can't find her. Maybe it's a bad taste joke, but the scream sounded real. Then someone hit me in the head and everything went dark. My fault, I thought I had cleared the area already, I lowered my guard because I had been through all possible hideouts and found no one. I woke up later, where you found me, Sherlock. I – I have no idea how you found me.'

It was a clear invitation for Sherlock to recount his side, but the detective insisted: 'You've got blood in your coat and you assure me it's not yours.'

John lowered his gaze slowly. 'No, it's your brother's. Sherrinford's, not Mycroft's', he cleared at once.

'You know he's my brother.'

'He told me so.'

'He was there as a hostage?' Sherlock tried to confirm. John wouldn't miss the doubt in his friend's voice.

'Yes, Sherlock, he was already tied up in that little dingy back room when I got there. Before you worry, he's as good as the circumstances permit. A bit worn, dirty clothes, muscles fading from the inactivity, and his stare... I've seen it before. He's been there a while, as a prisoner. I mean _was, was there_. Sorry, I... I still get the verbal times wrong, it's silly.'

Part of John is still there, beaten and bound, it's painfully obvious to Sherlock. The detective feels like the world is crashing around him soon if he can't get hold of it. The only thing grounding him right now is his need to stay strong for John. The soldier is usually so steady and solid, Sherlock is anxious to see him like that again. The battle John is still fighting is invisible to Sherlock. All he can do is hold on until John lets him know. Until he shares the darkness that has settled inside the former soldier.


	4. Chapter 4

_**.**_

'Sherrinford told you his name? How did you know who he is?'

'I tricked him into saying his own name. He was an emotional mess, I didn't want to push him too far.' John smiled darkly and Sherlock was suddenly reminded that John had lived at a war scenario. Treating prisoners wasn't a first. 'I used a couple of sentences repeating my name and soon he did the same. Sherrinford Holmes.'

'You knew he was my brother, it's not just the name, John.'

'He said "John Watson, the one that hangs around Sherlock Holmes?".'

'I bet you said "it's the other way around".' Sherlock smiled.

John didn't smile. 'No, I didn't.' John wouldn't have mentioned him by name in that scenario willingly, wouldn't bring up the name of the man with so many enemies in that dark place, he rather keep even his friend's name safe.

'Sherrinford told you he's my brother', Sherlock confirmed. John nodded, eyes still downcast. 'What else did he tell you?'

'What they did there, when, with what, to him. He confided.' John shrugs like gaining a broken man's trust was nothing special.

'It's his blood in your coat, as you tried to patch him up. You're a doctor, you couldn't stop yourself... What did they want from him?'

John looked up directly at Sherlock now. The silence drags till Sherlock understands he won't get an answer. Not yet, at least.

'Then they asked you, John.'

John assented sharply, in a military-like nod. 'I've had worse. Suppose they were still building it up. But you came along.'

'You didn't give them what they wanted.'

'No.' Matter-of-fact. Honest. Simple. He couldn't see the heroics in his actions. Saving a man he didn't know, believing he'd be safe because his friend wouldn't fail him. Soldiering on bravely in face of danger. John assumed it was the only course of action.

'Sherlock.' It was John's turn to call him back into the present moment. 'It must have been hard on you. You were told I had been kidnapped, as you say. Not for the first time either. When did you receive the ransom note?'

'Hardly a note, John. I received a video on my phone.' John turned to see the smashed apparatus on the living room floor, confused. Had they filmed him? Or Sherrinford? 'Tell me about it.'

'Later, on my new phone, John', Sherlock deflected, also keeping secrets.

'Was it about me or your brother?'

John, definitely John, but Sherlock evaded a clear answer.

'Up until an hour ago, John, I didn't know my brother was alive.'


	5. Chapter 5

_**.**_

'When did you last see your brother, Sherlock?'

John shivered, out of the blue. The few sips of alcohol were disappearing from his system, and the only source of energy left in him was his own stubbornness.

The detective looked at his friend analytically. 'John, you need to rest and get your injuries checked. I can bother you with my family history later.'

'Don't really want to go yet.'

'Don't be an idiot. You can stay for the night, I expected nothing less. I'll lend you some clothes and you can stay in your old room.'

John nodded in agreement at last. 'Tell me about your brother first, Sherlock.'

'Why now, John? Can't it wait?'

'I think not.'

Sherlock pondered for a couple of seconds. 'He's the oldest, John.'

'Mycroft is the one who acts like the older brother, though.'

'Maybe that's because Sherrinford left home very young. Mycroft took the role to heart. None of us has much memories of him. He was always abroad on schools for his IQ scores. He was a genius.'

'All of you are.'

Sherlock smiled softly at the natural compliment. 'Not like Sherrinford. The man has a mathematical brain. He sees reality in vectors and equations, patterns and geometries. A genius, by every definition, but he lacks the social side.'

'Doesn't feel like the man I met today.'

'He learnt to manipulate socially like a master, but had no empathy, no notion of the cost of his actions. As a child, he once injured another child, broke her arm actually, because he wanted her blue crayon.'

John's eyes wondered lazily to Sherlock's scarf, on the sofa. 'He was sent "away" to get help? Where?'

'Where they though he could get the help, a minimal sense of morals, a sense of guilt and remorse. Instead he learnt to manipulate the system.'

'You thought he had died, Sherlock.'

'He faked it, I suppose.'

'Are you telling me that Mycroft, the man with access to thousands of cameras and secret service reports didn't know his older brother was alive?' John frowned, puzzled.

Sherlock pressed his lips thin. 'As far as I'm aware he was equally surprised, John.'

'As he talked to your parents?'

Sherlock protested at once: 'How would that help?'

John tilted his head to the side. He couldn't be that oblivious. So, one of the Holmes parents or sons knew, John just couldn't tell which Holmes had been the promoter of some sort of fake death. John blinked, tiredly. Well, then, Sherlock hadn't been the first Holmes to fake his death for gain. John's headache was driving him away from reality.

'John? Please, let it go. You need to rest. We can talk to Mycroft and Sherrinford tomorrow.'

_**-.-**_

* * *

_A/N: These two never do very well on the common sense department, and I suspect they have been breaking most rules in the medical text books - from no medical assessment to lazy alcohol consumption ("come on, John, you should know better; and you, Sherlock, just chatting on?"). So blame it on my interpretation of the characters and on plot reasons. Next, Greg drops by, uninvited. Because, honestly, who could keep him away as soon as the news spread?_

_Further "disclaimers": Writing circa 500 words chapters is sooooo much harder than 2 000. (Feel free to explore in your reader's mind all that was left unsaid.) Also, please be aware that I wasn't born into the English language, and so accidents are likely to happen despite my best efforts. (Still learning.) -csf_


	6. Chapter 6

_**.**_

'It's Lestrade', Sherlock reported, annoyed, looking out of the window to the bleak street outside. DI Lestrade's car was parked just outside, and the man himself was standing in the street, arms crossed, looking demandingly onto the living room windows where he recognised Sherlock's silhouette.

John recognised, with a sigh: 'He won't give up, Sherlock.'

Sherlock disguised a look of concern as his eyes roamed his friend in the armchair. Then he went for the door.

'You didn't answer your phone, Sherlock. It's not all about you, I was worried about John. Is he still here? Did he let a doctor take a look at him yet?' The DI kept shooting questions as if in an effort to annoy Sherlock, as they climbed the stairs. 'John, there you are, how are you doing? I heard about what happened today.' Greg asked lightly as they came into the living room.

John put on his brave but fake smile. 'Peachy, Greg. Thought you had gone on holidays.'

'No, came back yesterday...' Greg turned a questioning look on Sherlock, before handling it himself: 'John, you've just returned over an hour ago. You've got nasty bruises and cuts. I know you refused the ambulance, but someone needs to take a look at that. Can I take a look? Not a doctor, but I've seen my fair share of scuffles...' John had flinched, turning paler. Whatever was going on in his head to do with his wounds he refused to acknowledge it. 'I think you are in shock, John. You're a doctor, you know it's not good for you to refuse care. You wouldn't let it past you if it were the other way around.'

John's breathing pattern was hastened, and Greg knew he was pushing it. 'Sherlock can help me later, I think', John said, and Greg had to take what he could get. Sherlock nodded at once.

'Okay, then, fine. Peachy, you said. Hm, so what were you guys talking about when I got here?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Lame. Couldn't the DI see that John wasn't ready to talk it over openly yet? That he sat in his armchair like a man taking refuge from the world?

'Sherlock.'

'John?'

'Greg's right. I should take a look at this. The first aid kit is still in the bathroom?'

He'd rather face the medical issues than discuss what happened at the warehouse in front of Greg Lestrade, a friend.

'I'll give you a hand, John. Greg, make yourself at home, _stay here, don't touch anything._'

The detective supported the smaller man sideways as they made their way through the kitchen, Greg was eyeing them closely. They disappeared into the small bathroom, leaving the door open, but the DI knew better than to push the former soldier too far. He kept his distance for now. Instead he went to the John's armchair and picked up the black tainted fabric of John's jacket. Sherlock would have a full day running analysis on it. Dirt, blood, and other stains messed up the usually neat coat. A reflection of whatever circle of hell John must had gone through.

Sherlock exited the bathroom to collect some night clothing for John, returning briefly. His eyes didn't cross with Greg, but his expression, as he left John for a couple of seconds, was heavy and pained. He had been seeing what's under the gushed torn piece of clothing that Greg still held in his hand. But why did John insist he didn't want to show himself, conceding at last with his best friend? He was a medical man, what was keeping him from clinical detachment?

Doctors do make the worst patients.


	7. Chapter 7

_**.**_

Sherlock handed out the plain white t-shirt. John took it with trembling fingers but a steady demeanour. His body was setting into delayed shock, triggered by the revelations of the small mirror over the lavatory. Plenty of dark bruises, some where the skin broke apart, from some blunt weapon. None deep enough to cause the red stain on the jacket that Sherlock had seen earlier, so most likely it wasn't his as John claimed. He did have a nasty cut on his arm, but seemed to have started healing already. Also some ligature marks on wrists and ankles from being tied up. One dark bruise forming over his swollen right wrist, Sherlock knew that pattern. John had forcefully sprained his own wrist to force his hand free from the restrains. Most likely it worked, too. People shouldn't mess with John, he hadn't been to Afghanistan for sunbathing.

'Cheers', John said, absent-mindedly. 'Is Greg still around?'

'In the kitchen, preparing something for you to eat and drink. He'll probably insist too. Are you up for some food? You haven't eaten in a long time, John.'

'I should drink some water to keep hydrated', the doctor recognised, 'not sure I can keep it down yet, though.'

'You should try. Lestrade is insistent.'

John smiled back to Sherlock, the bathroom lights straight over his hair, making it look greyer and sulking in every line on his face. 'I'll be fine, Sherlock', he promised. 'I just need some time.'

Sherlock still felt worried, but he helped his friend along the short distance into the kitchen, where it smelled of tea and toasts. Greg eyed their return closely.

'John, will you at least have some tea?'

John gave him a brave smile and plunged to the nearest chair. Greg handed over a mug. John looked at the mug for a couple of seconds, silently. Sherlock knew why; that was the wrong mug. Sherlock's mug. All mugs are the same, normally. But tonight, the wrong mug represented the world still upside down for the former soldier. John carried on, drinking the tea like it didn't matter the position the world was in anymore.

They were interrupted by Greg's phone. He took it out of his pocket with a brief apologetic smile. Then his face was troubled.

'It's Mycroft. Says he's dropping by in five minutes. How come he's texting _me_ that?' Greg realized.

'He knows you'd come by. It's your nature. Mycroft is very good at reading people, don't mind that. Tell him to drop dead. Somewhere far away.'

'I'm not answering that!'

'Like I said, he's good at reading people. He'll know it's on me.'

'Sherlock, your brother is worried. He knows what happened to John. He orchestrated the rescue team. He's not one of the bad guys.'

'I know that. But I don't trust the one he's with right now.'

'Who's that?'

'Our brother.'


	8. Chapter 8

_**.**_

'Mycroft. Family visits day?'

'It's a necessity in light of today's events, Sherlock, not a social mingling. May I take a seat?'

Immediately he went for the sofa, for the first time ever. Mycroft's not a sofa person. He'd rather have a one person's armchair, but he wouldn't aggravate his little brother that night by taking his leather chair, or the tapestry one, favourite of the good doctor. He looked around for a couple of seconds, taking in the living room. Like his brother, seeing the minute details that tell the tale of what happened there. 'Glad the doctor has accepted medical attention at last. DI Lestrade's influence I'd presume. Tell me, how bad is John's state?'

'He's upstairs, in his old room. With any luck the sleeping pills have taken effect already. He recognised he needs to rest. Give time for healing.'

'Has he told you what happened?'

'Not by words. I know some, because he allowed me to deduce it out of the evidence he carries.'

'He's holding something back', Mycroft understood. 'And why would he do that? Is it shame, trauma, or is he trying to protect you?' Cold reasoning and detachment abound in his words, the only way Sherlock would stay long enough to hear them. Even so, he's already started pacing mindlessly the living room.

'Definitely protecting me. He's a soldier, Mycroft.'

'That was quite some time ago. People change', he warned. Perhaps meaning more than just John. Including Sherlock, or perhaps bringing up Sherrinford again.

'Not John', Sherlock angrily bites back. 'Mycroft, how could you let this happen?'

The government official looks down on his umbrella, the question was overdue. 'I had no information, Sherlock. Nothing to go on. I didn't know John was in danger. Not until you got the video file.'

'It meant let something happen, let all of this happen!' Sherlock is angrily pacing the living room now. Angry against invisible specters of people and events he can't reach. 'Kidnapping John, sending a video, Sherrinford, there's a goal, a message, something!'

'It's plain and obvious, Sherlock. Can't you see it?' Mycroft laments.

Sherlock takes a deep pained breath, surrendering. 'Yes, I can see it.'

'John was a pawn, nothing else.' Mycroft's voice is purposefully soothing now.

'Actually, Mycroft, it's more than that. That's John, there is always something more about John', Sherlock shook his head, exhaustion catching up with him.

'You found him, Sherlock. You saved his life.'

'You helped.'

Mycroft waved the idea off. 'I had some people owing me a favour. Gave me chance to check up on their response time as well.'

'A whole assault team, Mycroft.'

'You were somewhat insistent, brother mine.'


	9. Chapter 9

_**.**_

'Sherrinford insists he's a victim. He was somewhat dehydrated, had a bad cut on his left arm, bruises and other persuasion evidence, and overall looks like a man who's been held captive for two weeks, as he declared. They are keeping him at the hospital overnight, the doctors believe he'll do a full recovery in time.'

Sherlock narrowed his green eyes, attentive. 'I bet he claims he has no idea why he's been held captive.'

'None whatsoever', Mycroft confirms.

'Too bad the captors weren't smart enough to send a ransom note for Sherrinford', Sherlock sneered, still on the verge of some sort of accidental meltdown. 'It's obvious he's no victim, he orchestrated this whole thing to reappear in our lives, to gain our trust. A victim, in need of healing. Well, John fell for that one immediately!'

'Sherlock', Mycroft warned. 'We still can't tell for sure if he was implicated.'

'Mycroft, we know him. We know what he's capable off.'

'Just because he can, doesn't mean he did, Sherlock. We need to approach this carefully. We need to prove he's hiding something before accusing him. Unfortunately...' he gestured in mid air.

'We need to play his game.'

'It's hardly done yet, Sherlock. Luckily, John is no longer held captive, but he's still a pawn. He believes Sherrinford to be a companion prisoner. They shared a tough spot and created a bond. That bond may be the best way in to Sherrinford right now.'

Sherlock's first reaction was to refuse, to protect the broken soldier, he had enough. Mycroft read it easily in his expression. 'Sherlock, he's going to continue playing John. He'll reach out to John after what they shared. John is kind-hearted, he won't turn away. This way, Sherlock, we can hold some control.'

'I have to warn John.'

'Go ahead, Sherlock. He'll never truly believe it. You've told him you haven't seen our brother since you were four years old?' Sherlock nodded, pursing his lips. 'Have you told him why?' He shook his head. 'Maybe you should.' Sherlock just looked away. 'We need to keep focus. Sherrinford, if it is indeed him responsible, has an agenda. We need to play our cards quietly till we can figure out why he's doing this.'

'Is there any chance John is right? That he's a victim?'

'I'm afraid John is not the best character reader. Strangely the man that went to fight a war still believes in the good nature of humanity.'

That's John's best trait, Sherlock knows it. The acceptance, the admiration, the forgiveness, all those good traits stem from this incredible innocence, that fuels his ability to rebuild time and time again. It's in that strength of his that John needs to find a way of healing after what he's been through at the warehouse.

And if Sherrinford is in any way involved, either to call the attention of Mycroft and Sherlock, or to hurt Sherlock by hurting the man he works with, or to claim his power and his brother's defencelessness over his plans... Sherlock will not stop at the fact that this man is his brother. To him, he's just a stranger, and now an enemy.


	10. Chapter 10

_**.**_

'There you go, John, your clothes all nice and clean, and I even mended that gash on the arm for you', Mrs Hudson fussed over John as they sat at the breakfast table, the next morning. John looked better, more rested, even if the dark circles under his eyes seemed to have nested and procreated there overnight. 'Your mended jumper doesn't look right, but it should do for today. Are you sure you wouldn't rather rest some more, dear?'

John gave her a sweet reassuring smile. 'I'll be fine, Mrs Hudson, please don't worry. I'm just going to go pay a visit at the hospital, and Sherlock wants to go with me. Besides, the kidnapping is over, it's in the past now.'

Mrs Hudson gave Sherlock a troubled look before turning her attention to the water kettle. Keeping busy helping the boys was the best she could do for them now. She still remembered too well the mess Sherlock was the day before and that awful, terrible video. She was glad Sherlock had ruined his phone, there was no hurry in John watching that.

'I don't trust Sherrinford, John.'

John looked to his friend, tilting his head to the side. 'I've noticed. Sherlock, I don't know what happened that drove you and Mycroft from your brother, but I trust the man I met yesterday. And he hadn't it easy. Perhaps you could give him a second chance.'

Sherlock noticeably declined the chance to talk about what had drove him and his elder brother apart. 'Please don't be naïve, John.'

'That's okay, I get it, all families carry secrets. I accept that, and I accept you've got your reasons. I'll I say is... The man was held captive under enemy pressure for a couple of weeks. Try to go easy on him. There's no need to dwell on the past today. You, and I, and him, can all have a nice talk despite what may have happened around thirty-five years ago.'

Sherlock sighed. That was John all over. 'Why are you so sure he wouldn't have lied to you?'

John took a deep breath. 'Because of his mindset yesterday. I know that mindset. It's beyond the capability of lying, faking. When you have been under such dire conditions, without hope for this long... Only the truth remains. It's so much more of an effort to lie than it is to tell the truth, Sherlock. When you are a prisoner for long enough, only the truth comes out of you anymore. You have no more energy left for alternative realities. There is only silence and memories. I know that. I saw that before. I saw it yesterday again.'

'John.'

'I tried my best to give him hope, even though he was freaking me out. That could be me. I could still be there, Sherlock, only I have you as my friend. You found me. Probably someone out there got his ransom note and didn't do a thing about it. That aggravates me. I'm the lucky one, do you understand?'

'John, please.'

'What?'

'Understand there is a reason for my distrust. It doesn't mean I cannot appreciate what you went through yesterday before I managed to get you out of there, or the apparent support he may have given you. No matter how much you play it as a small thing, I know it wasn't so.'

'Sherlock, we're late', John cut him off. Sherlock wasn't going to have that conversation with the former soldier. The detective assented despite his reservations, his green eyes still evaluating John, at all times.


	11. Chapter 11

_**.**_

The morning sun was partially veiled by the curtain, creating a sheltered protected environment in the upscale private hospital room, courtesy of Mycroft Holmes. A guard by the door recognised them at once and stood aside to let them in. John halted by the door, picking up the patient's file and running through the pages with a clinical expression in his face, that grew heavier by the page. Finally he assented to Sherlock, and they went inside the room.

Sherrinford Holmes, a tall, lanky, intellectual looking man sat by the window, dressed in a hospital attire covered by a loosely shaped cardigan. His face was thin and tired, but his eyes shone with a remarkably clear light.

He smiled as he recognised John, a close smile that only two men sharing a nightmare could develop. Sherlock eyed John attentively, John ignored him. Sherrinford then looked over at Sherlock and his expression clouded somewhat. 'The great Sherlock Holmes', he said, breaking the silence. 'The man I'm proud to call my brother. It's been a long time. You go by Sherlock now, right?'

John glanced at Sherlock and gathered, friendly: 'Mind if we take a seat with you, Sherrinford?'

'I don't own the window, go ahead.'

They all sat together, before John commented, with fake cheerfulness: 'You look better.'

'So do you, John. Last time I saw you they were dragging you out of our holding cell.'

'Well, I managed to get my wrist free. Still dragged a couple of them down and unbolted the door for the incoming rescue team before they got to me in the end.'

Sherlock understood at once: 'You knew they were moving in, John.' He had helped on his own rescue operation. The inside man. Guessing the experts moves. Sacrificing himself to ease their success.

'I saw them', John answered calmly. 'They were getting into position around the compound, furtively, but I knew what to expect. I knew it was a matter of time. If I managed to ease their way in, it cost less lives in the end. I had to do something.'

Sherrinford explained in detail for Sherlock: 'There was a small window high up on the wall of the small room they kept us in. Too far away from anything to call for help through it. John was transfixed by that window all the time. Kept assuring me he was keeping an eye out for the people that would rescue us. He knew you'd come, Sherlock. I've got to say I wasn't so convinced. I had been there for so long already.'

'Much longer than me', John agreed in a sympathetic voice. 'And you held your own better than it could be asked of you.'

Sherlock asked Sherrinford directly: 'What did they want from you?'

He shook his head. 'The same thing they wanted from John, I suppose. Most times I was left alone. Sometimes they would come by and question me intensely, then, when I couldn't give them the information I didn't have, they'd leave me alone.'

John was looking at him, but his gaze was frozen. For a moment, Sherlock believed he saw a shadow of suspicion in John's expression. What had happened that triggered John's hidden reaction? Had it really been there?


	12. Chapter 12

_**.**_

'Sherlock', Sherrinford started, 'what do you remember of me?'

Sherlock evaded the direct question about the past. There would be other times for that. Now he was focused on John, and the whole abduction's goal. 'You were asked questions while held there, Sherrinford.'

'Plenty, Sherlock. Just like they did with John when they got him there. Questions about you and Mycroft. I should probably warn you that you have powerful enemies out there, but it seems obvious enough.'

'Were the questions they had for John any different from yours?' Sherlock insisted, in a cold professional voice. The detective overlaying the brother and friend.

'When it came to John they were more insistent on knowing about you, Sherlock. You know Mycroft, he's not a people's person, I'd guess John to know him less well too.'

'What did you tell him over the time you spent there?'

'Hold on there, little brother. I protected you as best as I could. I gave him just about nothing. I had nothing to give. We haven't talked in a long time. All I know of you is through the papers, and John's blog. And all that they knew all along.' The man was getting agitated now, defending himself, and John immediately tried to intervene, laying a hand gently on his arm, and assuring him that Sherlock meant nothing by his questions.

To Sherlock he gave a heavy look. If he wanted to stay, he'd have to play along. Doctor's orders.

'Why don't you get him a glass of water, Sherlock?'

The detective obeyed in tense gestures. John had that doctor smile on again, when he said: 'Managed to keep quiet about that bee sting allergy you've got, Sherlock. Hopefully you did too, Sherrinford.' The man nodded, still breathing deeply. 'And other things that could have been more important, of course. What does it mean? They'd try to come after you with bees now if I told them about it?'

Sherlock smiled briefly amused. 'Doubtfully, John.'

'Sherlock, this man has been extremely loyal, you should know that.' He was referencing John, who was again too quiet.

'I know that', the detective assured his brother, in a quiet manner. John looked at him with a pleased and slightly surprised expression.

'I tried my best not to disappoint you either, Sherlock. No matter our differences in the past, you're my little brother. I wouldn't want harm coming upon you or Mycroft.'

John assured the two brothers: 'We don't need to go through all this right now, it's all too recent. And you need to rest, Sherrinford.'

The older man had a brief expression of annoyance towards John, probably because he was finally one again reunited with his brother and the off-duty doctor was trying to put an end to the encounter.

'I'm capable of this conversation, John. I appreciate your care, but I'm not tired.'

'You really need to rest, Sherrinford', the doctor in the room insisted. 'I'll get Sherlock to come round later, and share old Holmes family tales.' With a smile he got up and Sherlock followed him at once. 'Take care. I'll have a word with your doctor.'

'Thank you, John.'


	13. Chapter 13

_**.**_

The sun was still shining when they left the hospital, warming John that really missed his jacket, that Mrs Hudson had entrusted to the expertise of the cleaners. It seemed impossible that only the day before, with that missing jacket on, and right around that time, it was grey and cloudy, and he was being grabbed and abducted.

'John.'

He looked up to Sherlock, that was eyeing him closely, like he did so many times. 'Hey', he said, uninspired.

'We should get you a coffee, John.' He almost forcefully pushed John to a nearby coffee stand and then sat him at the first park seat available, outside the hospital. The lines on the detective's face seemed embedded in deep worry.

'Why are we here, Sherlock?' John protested faintly, he knew it was useless to go against the crazy detective's whims.

'John, I'm hoping you can trust me enough to tell me what else happened yesterday.'

'You mean the questions they kept asking me?' John realized.

'I don't give a damn about the questions, John.' It must be bad, if the detective was just about cursing. 'I need to know what happened there so I can help you.'

'What do you mean?' John was looking back blankly.

'The bruises were persuasive questions being asked. The wrist was you getting free when the opportunity arose. There is a cut in your arm, just like Sherrinford's, I don't understand it.'

John smiled back confidently. 'I'm okay, Sherlock.'

'John, focus. Your arm...?'

The former soldier looked away, to the people crossing the park on a sunny day. 'The guy had a knife. He used it on me to try to make Sherrinford say something new. That didn't get them much. So next they used it on Sherrinford to try to make me talk. I bandaged him the best I could later when we were alone again. Of course I didn't let it go far. I lied. Told them a lie and sent them on their merry way with my blessings. What else was I supposed to do? I'm a doctor for crying out loud. I cannot watch someone being injured.'

Sherlock shivered, John knew very well the prize of his choice to lie, had he been caught, had Sherlock taken too long to find him.

'Why wouldn't you accept the paramedics help? You knew about your arm and the bruises. It made me very concerned.'

John had his blue eyes fixed on the greenery across from them.

'My head must have been messed up, I just didn't want to relive it, Sherlock. The thing was over, all I wanted was to get the hell out of there. Anyway, you haven't told me what was on that video they sent you. I'm guessing it was some part of their persuasion techniques.'

'Yes, it was. No sound, just image, too short. Could tell you were in a warehouse. A glimpse of a far back window helped narrow down location. So did the oily dirt covering your clothes. A disused mechanics garage by the river. Not so many of those there, secluded spot. I borrowed a favour from Mycroft.'

John just nodded silently. The secrets they had kept from each other were finally in the open, and seemed to have been no secrets at all.


	14. Chapter 14

_**.**_

'Was it about money, power or information? How much was I worth, Sherlock?'

John's question was serious and pondered, with a hint of a smirk. Sherlock smiled as he answered: 'I skipped that part of the negotiation and assured you'd be free before they could name a price.'

'You drive a hard bargain. Let's hope they spread that information around. Getting tired of being abducted.'

'Me too.'

John still had the lead of the conversation but it'd take a couple of minutes before he'd add: 'They didn't catch the leader. Hopefully the men caught yesterday will name him. I'd like to understand what all this was for.'

'Indeed.'

Another full minute would pass before John noted: 'A good thing may have come out of this. We found your lost brother, Sherlock.'

'It turns out, he wasn't lost. Mycroft knew where he had been all along. Studying the societal marine life of some mammal species in the arctic region, a scientific eremite, a recluse by his own choice.'

'Mycroft never told you he was alive, then?' Sherlock looked heavily on John. There seemed to be a poorly disguised hint of sarcasm there. Of course, not knowing that a Holmes wasn't actually dead. When was he going to leave _that_ alone?, Sherlock considered without meaning it. He was glad John could joke about it now.

'Mycroft never told me, and I didn't ask.'

'What happened between you and Sherrinford, then?' John tried asking again.

Sherlock evaded a straightforward answer. 'Tell me, John, do you find Sherrinford trustworthy?'

There was only the slightest hesitation from the doctor, that then tried to cover up: 'Is any of us completely what we say we are?'

'Not in a philosophical mood, John.'

'Fine', John snapped back. 'I have no hard evidence that something is off. The physical condition is of someone held in captivity in the manner he recounted for as long as he said. The way he talked, and acted, is similar to the people I met or treated that have endured what is being said.'

'But...?'

'Something he said didn't add up. I don't know what he's hiding, Sherlock. It could be nothing. Each person reacts differently.'

'Or...?'

'Or your elder brother did orchestrate all of this, Sherlock, and I'm not okay with that.' John said, darkly. Angry even, because now Sherlock had got him to doubt Sherrinford Holmes.

_**-.-**_

* * *

_A/N: Short chapter, I know. Well, I haven't forgotten Mary, she arrives next. -csf_


	15. Chapter 15

_**.**_

'Came in the first train out of that place', Mary admitted as soon as she dropped her heavy bag in 221B's wooden floors. Sherlock turned towards her, still holding a beaker full of some nauseous green-yellow substance, clueless as he greeted her with the same gloved hand that held the smelly substance. On his customary armchair, John smiled, that old childlike smile that seemed to capture the world's happiness in it, unveiled, sincere.

'You came back early, Mary', he realized.

'My husband got himself into trouble, professional development courses somehow fall short when compared.'

'I'm alright, Mary', John assured her at once, as she came nearer, still with a worried expression.

'Sherlock told me all about it.' She turned to him with a heavy expression. 'After he'd found you, not before.'

'A bit busy, before', Sherlock defended himself.

John added: 'He probably didn't want to scare you, Mary.'

Mary looked from one to the other with barely concealed indignation. 'Really?! Busy? Protecting me?'

John was the first to falter, looking away into the fireplace. 'When you put it like that, Mary. I... You should have been the first person I talked to once I got out of there.'

Sherlock insisted: 'I was the first person you talked to, and you weren't doing much talking. Only then I told Mary what had happened. I can see by the state of her clothes – even you can see this, John – that she's been travelling all night long.'

'Ireland is a tad far away', Mary pointed out, still acidic, but more open. 'All I ask is that you keep me in the loop, boys.' She sighed. 'Did you take good care of my husband, Sherlock?' He nodded, John frowned at the question. Mary tried to compensate her husband with a gentle sweet squeeze of his uninjured hand. 'Well, then, I'm here now, Sherlock. Who do we need to nail? No one touches John and gets away with it, right?'

Sherlock smiled in complicity. John faked exasperation has he hid his own smile.

'Have a seat, Mary, we'll fill you in... Tea?' Sherlock offered.

'Oh, you're making tea now?'

'Why won't anyone believe I can actually make tea?' Sherlock protested half-heartedly as he turned to the kitchen to exchange the green sludge beaker for a kettle. John gave Mary a nose crinkle indicating the tea wouldn't be particularly drinkable. She halted a small laugh.

John smiled and took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a while longer, exhausted. Mary allowed herself to examine him, worried, as she watched his paled face.

Sherlock had held nothing back in his recount, once John had been fast asleep in the old bedroom upstairs. By that time she was already at the train station insisting she needed a train ticket in the first available train. She had ended up taking three sequential trains adding to her distance travelled by a few hundred miles, in order to assure that she saved about an hour in arriving in London.

Now she was finally in Baker Street, ready to make sense of what had happened the day before.


	16. Chapter 16

_**.**_

'I think the important thing here is what they wanted to know about Sherlock', Mary realized, sitting in Sherlock's chair, as he prepped the tea. 'They went to great lengths to extract information on Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective. Holding Sherrinford hostage for two weeks, then finally getting John and asking him the same questions. With just about the same effort, they could have got hold of you, Sherlock. Then who'd go and rescue you?'

In front of her, John frowned like he had just tasted something off. '_Me_. I'd go. I'm not just the side-kick, I mean, I am, but, I'd never, I wouldn't just leave Sherlock, please Sherlock you've got to believe me, sure Mycroft might have the brains to help, but whatever I could do, like you did for me, I'd do, I thought it was obvious, guess not, sorry.'

'John.'

'What?' he looked genuinely hurt, believing that Sherlock might think he'd leave him behind had things been the other way around. Sherlock tilted his head to the side, slightly. Finally John smiled, nodding to himself.

To Mary, Sherlock resumed, lightly: 'What he said. All of it. John would get me out, Mary.'

She assured them: 'I know that perfectly well, but the kidnappers might have a different view. It'd still be easier just to grab you, Sherlock, than to go through all of this.'

'She's got a good point', John seconded.

Sherlock accepted: 'They are building up to something bigger. Or it's personal.'

'You still think your brother did it and faked being a fellow hostage.'

'I have to entertain the possibility.'

'That's devious', Mary commented, either referring to Sherrinford or to Sherlock's brotherly distrust. The detective gave her a measuring glance.

'The ones that were caught are on Mycroft's hands, now', Sherlock added. 'They'll talk soon enough, if they have something they can tell us.'

'But you think this is family business, and so does Mycroft', Mary read easily. 'And John, you agree.'

'What made you suspect, John?'

Yes, John now suspected Sherrinford. Something wasn't right for the former soldier. For the life of him, he couldn't understand what would possess a man to play along in his abduction, or whatever it was. Stockholm syndrome? Coercion? Personal gain? The odds were that Sherrinford may have played him in that warehouse, and John's delayed realization of it didn't make the blow any easier.

'Something he said. About them questioning him till they gave up.' John answered slowly.

'What about it?' The detective asked gently, probably he sensed he answer.

'It just doesn't happen that way, Sherlock. I know that. I've seen that before.'


	17. Chapter 17

_**.**_

Sherlock was holding his new phone, in every way identical to his last. John actually wondered if Sherlock had ever broken other phones and John didn't realize it just because the detective kept replacing them with similar copies.

'What is it?' Mary asked him.

'My brother, Sherrinford, asking if I can come to meet him before visiting hours are over. Alone. To talk.'

John repeated, suspicious: 'Alone? Well, a hospital is a fairly busy space, it's not like if he's _evil_ he'll really try something against you there. Besides, if it's truly his work, he's been building this charade up for so long, doubtfully he'd just resort to violence all of a sudden.'

Sherlock nodded. 'I agree, John.'

'Either way', John added, 'I'm not letting you go on your own. But you already knew that, right?'

Sherlock smiled sideways. John kept trying to protect him. From the hostage situation where he kept silent against the persuasive efforts to make him talk, displayed by the vast range of purple bruises and other incentives Sherlock had seen on him, to the quiet loyalty he verbalised in that very room, in a sincere broken up speech pattern that had been totally unnecessary to voice.

Mary interrupted at once: 'Hang in there a second. Sherlock, you haven't told me what's up with your lost brother. You think he might be a dangerous man. Something must have happened to make you think that. I think we should know, before you come up with a plan.'

John was looking at her, surprised. She was laying down the law, breaking John and Sherlock's pattern of privacy when invoked. John looked back at Sherlock, as if trying to assure him he didn't need to open up until he was ready. Behind him, Mary gave John a heavy look. There was a thin line between camaraderie and naivety. John was borderline entering the latter, in her eyes. She focused on Sherlock with a demanding expression.

Sherlock was not surprised. He'd settle the disagreement of points of view on him from the Watsons the same way as always. Doing whatever he had his mind set on from the beginning.

This time he also proved that John knew him better, for he kept his secrets and his independency in one swift answer: 'We can talk about that later, Mary.'

She frowned on him. 'Fine, go ahead, you stubborn man, and tell us your plan. Sometimes I can't tell which one you two is more stubborn.'

John and Sherlock exchanged a puzzled silent look.

'The plan is to go meet Sherrinford, Mary.'

'And why would you do that, Sherlock?' she asked, exasperated. 'Because you're bored?'

Sherlock shrugged, not giving anything away. 'And he asked politely.'

John just giggled, before he could stop himself. Looking back at him, Sherlock smiled, unrestrained. Mary just shook her head silently.


	18. Chapter 18

_**.**_

'My arm is fine, Sherlock.'

The nurse was checking John Watson's bandaged arm at the hospital, while the blond man stood there, pursing his lips and glaring at the tall man standing, as if in guard, at the door, keeping him in. 'You know you needn't trick me, Sherlock. Are we even here to see your brother or is this all a scheme to have me looked at?'

'Can't it be both, John?' He asked airily.

To the nurse, John protested, still stiff: 'I'm a doctor, I can take care of myself, I don't need to be here. Plenty of people out there that need a nurse's attention more than me. I'm occupying valuable time and resources.'

'Don't listen to him', Sherlock interjected.

John swallowed air to keep himself in check. Then he dropped his head, tired, to his chest and started: 'Sherlock...'

'John.' This time it didn't work, Sherlock knew instantly. He hastened to assure his friend: 'I'm not implying you're not a good doctor, I knew you checked it out yourself, but I wanted to be sure.'

'I gave you space, Sherlock.'

'Yes.' Sherlock didn't follow.

'You're not giving me space.'

'Oh.'

'I don't want to talk about it. Told you that much. But you can't leave it alone. Right now I'm not your friend, I'm a part of your case. You blunder right through it, like you always do. I'm on your way, but you keep on pushing.'

John still didn't look back at him. Completely immobile, the only movement around John came from the experienced fingers of the middle-aged nurse cleaning and bandaging the cut in his arm.

'John, I don't...'

'Stop', John cut him short. Stop talking. Stop excusing yourself. Stop pressuring me. Stop putting me back there.

All of a sudden Sherlock had this feeling that he had bitten off more than he could chew.

John was unreachable, lost in his pain, in his predicament, an empty shell of the man that he usually was. There had been some return, but again he was retrieving back to the haggard man that had exited the warehouse and that had stopped short at the first view of an ambulance on site.

John still kept some dark secret inside him, and it was drowning him from the inside out.

All the certainty that Sherlock had only an hour ago of knowing all the important things of what he had not witnessed inside the warehouse were now crumbling to the floor like fine dust.

'John.'

He flinched. Whether at the mention of his name or at a careless gesture of the nurse, the detective didn't know.

'This is not going away, John.'

This time the blond man didn't answer. But he heard it. Sherlock wasn't going away.


	19. Chapter 19

_**.**_

'What happened, Sherlock?'

Molly had come, bringing two coffees and awkwardly handing him the wrong one. He had covered for her mistake, and now he was sipping at the diet latte's paper cup and she was frowning slightly at the sugared black coffee. But none of them admitted it. It wasn't important. Coffee wasn't the reason they were there.

'Mycroft just told me. I made him investigate around old files for me. It was as I suspected. Five years ago, John's medic team was caught in an ambush by insurgents, at some forsaken province in the middle of the desert. They were held captives for three days. Mostly they were left alone. No water, food, or care, though. Just them and their thoughts. They were five on the team. They all made it out. Three of them were found to be unfit for immediate return to active duty after evaluation, and were sent out. John was one of the two that stayed, and considered himself lucky.'

'So what happened yesterday brought back memories.'

'Only when he saw the ambulance stationed outside. Funny how memory works. That warehouse had nothing on what he'd been through before.'

'He asked you to let him go to Baker Street, right?'

'Mary was in Ireland. Their house was empty.'

'He was looking for support. Sherlock, you did well. John was reaching out and you gave him the comfort he needed.' She smiled to him, but he couldn't bring himself to smile back.

'John is a mess, right now.'

'You knew it'd catch up with him eventually. The psychological shock. Did you really think he'd dodged that bullet?'

'I hoped so.'

'That's because you care about him, you let it blind you, his effort to stay strong for you... So, what happened?'

'Nothing. He pushed me out, that's all.'

'So, he's in there', Molly pointed with her coffee holding hand to the nursing station, 'and you're out here because he told you to leave him alone?'

Sherlock nodded. That was a simple way of putting it, but true. 'Yes', he said at last.

'Then, go in.'

'He threw me out, Molly, I messed up by not seeing the clues.'

'You're not seeing them now either.' Molly was being very frontal. 'He doesn't mean it, Sherlock. John needs you, he just needs for you not to see him fail. He's been trying very hard to stay strong in front of you. Tell me, would you think less of him if you really saw him truly distraught by his abduction?'

'Of course not', Sherlock frowned practically his entire face.

'Well, he doesn't know that, Sherlock. Just go back in.'

'What do I say?' he was erring in the side of caution now.

'It doesn't really matter. John will understand.'


	20. Chapter 20

_**.**_

'Since when do you drink lattes?' John frowned, as they walked the corridors of the hospital side by side, in unity once again.

'Sometimes you are quite observant, John', was all Sherlock commented on his coffee.

'Only sometimes', John commented vaguely.

'The nurse said your arm will be fine, John. You were right all along.'

John exhaled slowly. Sherlock was trying too hard now. 'Well, I'm a doctor, after all. It'd be nice if people could remember that.'

'Indeed. Are you sure you're up for this, John? I can meet Sherrinford on my own. It's not as if he's standing behind the door with a shotgun. That's not the sort of psychopath he is.'

'Psychopath?' the doctor repeated, stunned. Sherlock Holmes using the description "psychopath" was unheard of. It must be bad.

'Figure of speech, John. Though I wouldn't put it past him, if you really need to know. He once sabotaged my bike's brakes when I was four years old.' John looked back at him with his blue eyes rounded by shock. Sherlock answered the unspoken question: 'Because he liked my bike better, and wanted to ruin it for me.' The detective was acting nonchalant, but John could read differently in the lines of his face, and the time he had taken to confide.

'He was a bit old for jealousy', John commented carefully. It was Sherlock's family, after all.

'He got into a lot of trouble. It also shed light into the fact that he had to be monitored from then on.'

'He was sent to special schools abroad', John recalled. It mustn't have been easy on their parents, separating their children in order to protect each of them in their own way.

'He was sent away from me. Mycroft gathers he may have developed a special fixation on me from then on.' He kept going, in the same restrained tone of voice.

'Then they told you he had died. That's a bit harsh, no matter what may have happened that they didn't tell you.'

Sherlock half-smiled. Observant, indeed. 'Life went on. Fast-forward to yesterday evening, and I'm told you had been abducted alongside Sherrinford. Hence my distrust.'

'I can definitely see it now. I'm sorry I insisted you should make peace with your brother now.'

Sherlock shook his head, apologies were unnecessary. John being John was paramount.

'I'm fully convinced Sherrinford created this situation, John. Mycroft is working on proving it, figured he owed us that much, he could do the investigative work for once.'

'Such as the ownership of the warehouse and the background on the people employed to push me around?' John recognised. 'Thought that was as much your usual job as mine, Sherlock.'

'And you're very good at it', Sherlock returned, knowing it would spike him. John glared at him. Then he broke his expression and realized, holding his arm: 'Sherrinford was hurt in front of me. He knew it, he planned it. To make me believe him, trust him.'

'Yes.' Sherlock sipped his coffee with a disgusted expression that wasn't only due to the diet latte.


	21. Chapter 21

_**.**_

John knocked politely on the hospital's private room door before twisting the knob. Sherrinford's lean figure was standing in front of the window, looking out, quite immobile.

'Sherrinford? It's John, and Sherlock', the doctor identified himself.

'Come in, close the door', the older Holmes said, not turning around, in a cold detached voice. John frowned. Behind him, Sherlock was looking all around the room in one of his investigative stares, as he closed the door. He removed the hand very fast, as if the door had just given him a small static shock.

Finally the detective said: 'I was kind of hoping for real live bees. As it turns out, I'm actually quite fond of bees, the way they've built their own civilization and all seem to have only one final goal in mind. Should write a blog entry about that, some day.'

'I'd read it, too', Sherrinford admitted. 'Too bad, you're allergic to bees.'

John looked from the man at the window to his friend, stunned. What was going on?

'A sting, and I go into anaphylactic shock, Sherrinford, that's what John told you. So, you inserted a little metal spike in the door handle, motioned by a spring. Neat. What did you coat the handle with? Phospholipase A, one of the venom components known to cause an allergic reaction in a hypersensitive individual. I'm guessing by the fact that you've been confined in a hospital, it should be feasible to attain... But how do you explain the apparent bee sting allergy as I visit you?'

'The hospital is surrounded by a park, must have dragged one in with you, Sherlock. I saw you walk the garden with John.' The two men were measuring each other closely.

'Sloppy, I was expecting better from the man that abducted my best friend', Sherlock stated. 'After all, I'm in a hospital, the right place to be treated in time.'

'The door is unfortunately stuck.' John walked to the door and tested the handle, avoiding the spike. It wouldn't turn or give in.

'And then there is John in here with me, a witness.'

'I looked into his medical files, he was admitted as a patient earlier. The nurses had his files. I know what he's allergic to. Can play it as a malpractice accident. Enough to fool the Yard.'

'Better, still sloppy, though. You see, I'm not allergic to bees. The most I can get out of this is a bit of pain.'

Sherrinford turned abruptly, finally a reaction. Anger, maniacally evident, as he looked at his brother, and at John. It was to the latter that he accused: 'You lied to me!'

John shrugged. 'Of course I did.'

Sherrinford smiled coldly. 'How did you know? I played you. You believed me. I saw it.'

So much like his brother, an inquisitive mind derailing all sense of reality. Only Sherlock, the self-proclaimed sociopath, would never have derived pleasure creating those plans. 'Why do all of this?' John asked him.

'Wanted to get to know my brother better.'

'Could have phoned him', John was sarcastic.

'People always tend to lie, except when faced with extreme circumstances. Then they'll tend to tell the truth. At first, I used you to know Sherlock better. I had to make sure you had his best interest at heart, John.' He smiled. 'Then I used the information you gave me.'

'You little piece of–' Sherlock placed a hand in his shoulder, and John bit his tongue with effort, fisting his hands by his side.

_**-.-**_

* * *

_A/N: Blame the unrealistic nature of my medical "knowledge" on internet search engines. ____Bees are a cannon reference, naturally. I hid the scam on chapt.12 as a joint John & Sherlock little misinformation. The rest is a Holmes doing everything the complicated way._

_____(Oh dear, I __can easily imagine a respectable medical expert somewhere just snorting laughter at this chapter.) __-csf_


	22. Chapter 22

_**.**_

The police was now in the private room, and Mycroft had just arrived. Sherlock and John sat tiredly, side by side, by the window. The detective broke the tense silence first, assuring, in a cold emotionless façade: 'He doesn't understand, John. That's why it doesn't make sense. It never did. But I understand it now.'

'And now what?' John asked looking absentmindedly at Mycroft, collecting information from an officer.

'My brother Sherrinford has an incredible work in progress as a solitary explorer of the Arctic regions, where his been productive and acknowledged.'

'Sherlock, we can't just let him go like that.'

'Mycroft will keep an eye on him. Make sure this doesn't happen again.'

'If it were anyone else...'

'Mycroft wouldn't dare. But he's got Mummy to answer to.'

John sighed, getting up. He knew how hard that had been on the detective, even as he fought not to let it show. He tried to return some of that care that Sherlock had shown him. 'The least I can do is to try to find you a decent coffee, Sherlock. I think I know my way through the nurses' station. It's always the nurses that have the best coffee, anyway.'

Sherlock watched John go, with a warm light in his eyes. John was reverting to his old self. Case solved, John could finally heal properly, and eventually let go. It was a lesson to be learnt, a Holmes proximity tends to change John's life in dangerous ways. Somehow, that never scared him away.

As soon as John was out of the room and in the hall, the former soldier cornered Mycroft. 'Did you expect this to happen?'

Mycroft recognised John and the intensity of his expression, at once. 'I'm not surprised, unfortunately. Sherrinford has always been the amoral brother, the one to whom there was no right or wrong, only momentary convenience, John. No matter the effort to show him otherwise, he was quite adamant on his views on life, and people.'

John crossed his arms in front of him. 'You need to explain it better, Mycroft.'

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but ultimately played along. 'Sherrinford is older than both of us, he was the first born. Intelligent and manipulative under the mask of a lazy, self-centred boy. Enough to say that some of his earlier behaviour concerned our parents. Their view on it was that tender loving care would ultimately bring him to his senses. Then _certain_ incidents occurred, particularly with Sherlock, after he was born, that settled it otherwise.'

John nodded. 'I can imagine how complicated it was.' Mycroft rolled his eyes to the display of empathy and understanding. Sympathy was not kindly accepted by a Holmes brother.

The police officers were pushing a black-eyed Sherrinford along with them, by the corridor. Mycroft and John stood back to let them pass. Mycroft raised a brow at the sight of the swollen left eye, John was suddenly distracted by shenanigans nearby.

Whatever influence Mycroft would have on the events of that afternoon, it'd only take place later.

Mycroft depreciated, between him and John: 'Sherrinford always had a knack for misbehaving. Always seemed fixated on Sherlock's toys as well.' John managed the feat of both frowning and raising an eyebrow at the same time, as a reflexive answer. 'Of course you're not, John', Mycroft anticipated John's rebuttal. 'But you know how possessive my brother is...'

John shook his head. The Holmes brothers seemed to enjoy messing with him. Things were going back to normal.

'I'm going to get Sherlock a coffee, want one too, Mycroft?'

Mycroft Holmes disguised a knowing smile as John set off. Same old John.

_**-.-**_

* * *

_A/N: __Couldn't just plaster a (non-credible/too fast) happy ending, but I'm fairly sure one is implied as I end this story here, when the case is solved and things are going back to normal._

_Also, I'm not ratting out on who punched Sherrinford (he deserved more, but they had Mummy Holmes to consider; plus, this way he lurks in the shadows)._

_I still have no good justification. It's not a lighthearted story because it sets the tone for this Sherrinford Holmes._

_Hopefully I'm wrong and Sherrinford is presented all along like a nice happy lazy man with a hearty laugh and that enjoys the good life, away because he's travelling the world for intellectual enlightenment. I think I should write this alternative Sherrinford Holmes. I still won't get the right Sherrinford Holmes of S4. I'd bet on that. __-csf_


End file.
